


Divine Mistake

by jat_sapphire



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: While on call, Bodie and Doyle take a trip to Brighton.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Kudos: 23





	Divine Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Livejournal 30Days30Nights challenge in May 2020.

> ”Those dreary vows that everyone takes  
>  Everyone breaks,  
>  Everyone makes divine mistakes,  
>  The lusty month of May!”  
>  —Lerner and Lowe, _Camelot_

Bodie's skin, his shoulders, his chest, his legs, rarely saw the sun. Even now, standing in the shower with a double-hung frosted-glass window to his right, on a bright May morning, the light was a gentle blueish grey while the shower water glittered on his skin. He scrubbed briskly and rinsed, turned off the water and grabbed a towel, rubbed down before and after stepping out of the tub so there wouldn't be a puddle to clean up later.

It was an ordinary Friday, and they were on call, but unless some emergency cropped up, he didn't think he and Ray would be called in. No major ops were in progress; Murphy and Jax had an obbo, but it had been quiet since Tuesday. So he'd tried to get Janine or Betsy to agree to a day out, but the former had a few stern words about being abandoned on the river the last time, and the latter didn't even answer the phone.

Going out on the pull was an option, of course, but it seemed a lot of trouble. The musty, beery, smoky atmosphere of a pub seemed sad on a beautiful day like this. He could give Doyle a ring, he supposed. Go for a run or shoot some targets, or go fishing or riding motorbikes.

He hung up the towel and walked naked into the bedroom, since the curtains were drawn and there was no one to see—just himself, caught in the full-length mirror. He pulled on a pair of pants and went back in the bathroom to shave and put on aftershave, then dressed in casual khakis and what the shopgirl had called a “mock turtle-neck” jumper—it reminded him of _Alice in Wonderland_ —“Would you walk a little faster, said the whiting to the snail,” he warbled as he brushed back his hair. The jumper was a dark green, more Doyle's style than his own. Back in the bedroom, he pulled on socks and loafers, then went out to the sitting room and the phone.

“Me,” he said when Doyle picked up. “Fancy fishing?”

“Let's go to Brighton,” said Doyle. “Beach, pier, might be jolly.”

“Might be swarming with sprogs and OAPs,” Bodie objected.

“Tea rooms and sunshine,” Doyle coaxed.

“Stand me a cream tea and you're on.”

“All right then.”

Doyle said in the car that he'd called in on his R/T and was told that so long as they kept their R/Ts with them—“Not in the car boot. Tell Master Bodie,” Cowley had growled—they were permitted to go a whole hour and a half away, and “Bring your swim shorts.” Bodie's were shorter than most and solid black. He stuffed them in his back pocket, and tossed them into the back seat as he got in. He let Doyle drive as the M23 was not the kind of highway driving he preferred.

They went straight to the Pier and walked down the left, looking at the beach and the calm sea, rows of surf riding in like lace ruffles on a bird's skirt. Doyle rolled his eyes as Bodie stopped and tried every kind of carnival food on offer: cornets, candy floss, fried cheese pasta, fried courgette on a stick, “Chicago style” sausages almost hidden by toppings, a paper cone of clams, fish and chips, popcorn, toffee apple covered with hundreds and thousands, and there was no counting the smaller bites of fudge and biscuits and soft drinks. “Gonna have to roll you back to the car,” he grumbled, and Bodie just grinned.

On the way back, they went inside, where the games were, and their natural competetiveness and double act took over for a while. So many of them were shooting or marksmanship games that they were bound to become engaged and bound to win often. Bodie winked and smiled at birds and sprogs, then gave them the cheap stuffed animals the stall runners grudgingly handed over. No dates resulted, so Doyle elbowed Bodie and grinned. Then Bodie presented him with the next prize, a giraffe with lashes even more prodigious than Bodie's own and big orange spots. Doyle carried it under one arm, the long stuffed legs bumping into his calf, though carrying awkward loads was usually Bodie's job. They walked back to the car to stuff the giraffe into the back seat and get the swim shorts and towels.

An afternoon's rent for a beach hut cost thirty pounds, which left Doyle grumbling until Bodie came out and shaded his eyes, showing more of his skin than Doyle had seen outside the HQ showers. His breath stopped and his throat was suddenly dry. His eyes were glued to Bodie's shoulders, the slope of his pectorals, the bow of his ribs, the sculpted abdomen, the dents above his hips where the elastic top of the shorts sat, the solid muscles on his thighs, lightly furred shins, broad pale feet in the sandals he wore against the pebbles. The pause as Doyle stared went on into awkwardness, but he could not speak or even swallow.

At last Bodie moved, stepping toward the folding chair by the striped hut door and gesturing to the opening. “Your turn, mate,” he said a little gruffly.

Doyle pushed hard on the arms of his own folding chair and got to his feet. “Ta,” he rasped out and finally gulped a bit.

It wasn't at all easy to get out of his jeans and into his own Speedo. He kept thinking of Bodie in—and out—of his black shorts, and his cock kept jumping and bulking up as he tried to tuck it in. In the end he got himself together so he wasn't indecently exposed and thrust his feet into his own sandals. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

Bodie looked him up and down. His gaze was like a warm hand running down Doyle's body, clavicle to chest hair to navel to thigh, and even glancing at his toes, and his smile was wide and open, as if he were going to say—to do—Doyle didn't know what. Without any consciously flirtatious intent, Doyle asked, “Like what you see?”

“Yes,” Bodie said gravely. His eyebrow quirked upward. “You'll have to beat 'em off with sticks.”

“Your job, inn'at?”

“If you like. Can do.”

Bodie tossed a beach blanket over his shoulder so that it covered his side to the knee, which Doyle thought was a pity, and Doyle picked up the tube of sun cream. They gathered up their towels, locked the hut, and walked along the pebbly stretch between the pavement and the huts and the water.

It took some effort to find a spot for the blanket that wouldn't be a trial to sit on, and then Doyle gestured with the sun cream at Bodie's shoulder, recklessly offering, “Want a hand?”

He told himself it was only matey, because he knew how Bodie burned in a direct sun like this.

But when he'd greased his hands and started smoothing the cream on Bodie's neck, over his shoulder blades, down the planes of his back, Doyle could feel his own breath getting quicker and knew he'd already memorized the skin in his palms, didn't want to stop, wanted to ask Bodie to turn so he could slick up his chest . . . he pulled back both hands and clenched them into fists, forced himself to his feet and said, “Think I'll take a dip, eh?”

“You don't need sun cream yourself?” The grin Bodie gave over his shoulder made Doyle want so much to throw himself on that broad, gleaming back that he could only recoil and close his eyes for a moment. 

“Not till I've been in,” he said, gasping for air. “All wash off in the sea, it'll be all wasted.”

“Very well,” Bodie said. Doyle could tell his partner's eyes were on him all the way to the water line, and felt ridiculously conspicuous until he'd run into the surf, ducked into a wave, and stood shivering a bit where the water was waist-high. Bodie waved and gestured down the beach, some complicated movement that Doyle couldn't understand. He couldn't really read his partner's mind, no matter what the other agents said. He deliberately looked out to sea, watched other swimmers a bit, then dove in again. The sun was warm enough, but the water still had a spring chill. He intercepted a beach ball after a young boy had missed it, and joined in the game for a few turns, then waved the children off and looked back at the blanket, which was empty. Bodie had gone for something.

No reason he shouldn't. Might even pull a bird, bring her back to the blanket. There were plenty about, tilting their sunhats this way and that, putting on their sunglasses or pulling them down their little noses, brushing sand or dirt off their flat stomachs or arranging folds of their coverups.

Doyle wondered, all at once, if the whole outing had been a mistake. He felt off-balance, in danger of letting loose his desire for Bodie. Maybe he had just set himself up for exposure, for a confession that would lead only to disaster. Just because Bodie had said he'd chase off the birds, or blokes, who'd be after Doyle, “with sticks” no less, didn't mean he really would. 

Doyle left the water and went back to the blanket to dry off, scrubbing at his hair and mentally kicking himself. He was still under the towel when Bodie said, “Oi, want a lager?”

“Ta, sure,” he said, letting the towel drop to his shoulders and reaching for the can, pulling the pop-top forward and pushing it back. It foamed out a little, and Doyle extended his arm so it dripped into the pebbles before pulling it back to his mouth. He hadn't realised how thirsty he'd been getting, and the refreshing wetness made him groan a little. Lowering the can to his knee, he wiped his mouth on the back of his other hand and said, “Wanted that, I did, 's really good.”

Bodie started a little, his face in shadow as he looked down and his eyes seeming darker than usual. He cleared his throat and said, “Glad you enjoyed it. Drank mine on the way back, so I found the rubbish bin.”

“Oh, good.” Doyle tilted his head back, sank back on his elbows. “Don't want to leave a mess.” The sun made the insides of his eyelids a strong orange colour, and he felt the cool breeze, the warm sun, the muscles loosening in arms and legs after his exertions in the water.

Bodie touched his hair near the crown of his head and said, “Isn't this going to tangle up, rubbing it and leaving it wet like this?”

“Always does, swimming,” Doyle said without opening his eyes. “You bring a comb?”

“No. Might be one in the car. Back seat.”

Doyle shrugged against the blanket. He heard the sounds and felt the movements of Bodie sitting down, then his fingers were in Doyle's hair again, pulling a bit through the wet curls, then again, scalp to ends. “Mind if I do this?” As Bodie spoke, he finger-combed another hank of hair.

“No, that's fine,” Doyle said, though the last time anyone had done that was his sister's little girl, and it had stung quite a bit. But Bodie fingered his hair gently, separating carefully where the tangles tightened to knots, spreading the strands around his head on the blanket.

“It's getting a bit long,” Bodie commented.

“Yeah, gonna get it cut next week.”

“Not too short, mm?” By this time, Bodie was stroking the hair he'd spread out, and the pretense of combing was abandoned.

“Like it?” Doyle's mouth curved even as he pictured strangers watching Bodie pet his hair.

“I've always liked it,” and Bodie's voice was low now. “In the Cow's office, that first day, when I was still thinking you were some sort of hippy Teddy-boy, I wanted to touch it and see if it was as soft as it looks.”

“Is it?” Doyle opened his eyes and watched as Bodie petted and looked.

Bodie swallowed. “Feels terrific.” His voice was almost inaudible now.

“Bet yours does too,” Doyle hadn't meant to say anything like that, but right now he wanted so much to reach up, pet Bodie back, pull his head down to bring that pink curved mouth within reach, that he could not help it. “Public beach,” he said to prevent himself from committing the crime he so desired.

“And we're a good ninety minutes from your flat.” 

“Or yours.” 

Bodie looked around, back down at Doyle, licked his lips, and Doyle turned his head because he was thirsting, starving, for the touch of Bodie's tongue, his hands, his cock. 

“Christ,” he said, his head spinning as if that can of lager had been a half-bottle of vodka.

“The hut's right here,”said Bodie, sounding as unstrung as Doyle.

They both knew the hut held only a single wooden chair and a tiny tea-table, where their clothes were piled with their shoes underneath. It was the least private shelter imaginable.

“Can we walk there?” Doyle wasn't sure he could. His cock was trying to poke right through his Speedos, and Bodie's was all but emerging from his swim shorts.

Bodie glanced at Doyle's groin, looked over his head, and said, “Put the towel round your waist?”

Doyle nodded, impressed at Bodie's quickness of thought. “I'm wet, yeah,” he agreed, and Bodie shut his eyes and shifted a little. 

“You are.” He took a long, tightly controlled breath.

Doyle thought of the trip from the hut to here. “You carried the blanket. Before.” He meant to be comforting or encouraging, but he sounded angry. Bodie didn't seem to care, though.

“Yeah,” he breathed. After a few more moments, when their eyes didn't meet and they didn't touch, Bodie sat up and repeated, “Yeah.”

Doyle pushed himself to a seated position and got the damp towel round his waist before getting to his feet. Bodie got to hands and knees, and Doyle was staring at the hard rod barely concealed in the black fabric. He could only hope nobody else was looking. Bodie swept up the blanket and they both retreated to the hut.

With the doors shut, it was dark as a cupboard, but they dropped the lengths of cloth and scrabbled at their swim shorts, and a step and a gasp brought them into each other's arms where they devoured each other's mouths. Bodie sank onto the little wooden chair and pulled Doyle between himself and the table, which Doyle half-sat on while Bodie pulled out the wet, hard cock. “Christ,” he groaned and sucked it in more avidly even than he'd swallowed the Chicago sausage. 

Doyle mouthed Bodie's hair, still warm from the sun, and groaned himself, hoping it was muffled. “Mmm! _MMM!_ ”

“MmmMM,” Bodie replied, and thrust in the chair.

It was mad, risky, ridiculous behaviour, and they both felt like gods, as if they were flying above the fantasy minarets of the Royal Pavilion. They clung to each other, panting, listening for any signs that they were discovered, but the ordinary voices, ordinary music from the Pier, ordinary children's shouts and distant traffic, were all they heard. 

It was even more difficult to get their clothes on in the narrow space. Bodie pulled off his swim shorts and bundled them in a towel, while Doyle pulled trousers over his own. Then, minimally clothed, they opened the door to air out the hut a bit, while Bodie resumed his jumper and Doyle his t-shirt and sports jacket.

Bodie sat back down on the chair to put on his shoes, and started to laugh when he met Doyle's eye. “Barking, this was,” he said, and Doyle shook his head, smiling.

“Best day off . . . ever,” he said, and Bodie grinned more widely than Doyle had ever seen him do.

“Stay home next time, even better,” he said and slung an arm round Doyle's shoulders as they walked back to turn in the hut keys.

*end*


End file.
